Between the Past and the Future
by Ygrain33
Summary: Moments between Shepard and Anderson, in no particular order. Rated for language.
1. Who do you serve, and who do you trust?

_For reyavie, so that she didn't have to wait too long :D_

* * *

**Who do you serve and who do you trust?**

"Shepard…?"

"Anderson. Good to see you."

Seeing him on the vidcom was a mild shock, even despite knowing already; seeing him there, in his office, with a glass of vodka, is disconcerting at best. Listening to his story of coming back from the dead is… well… with _Shepard_, not so completely unbelievable as with anyone else.

Only the whole time they are speaking, Anderson keeps wondering _what_ it is that's sitting in front of him.

– Shepard, genetically; the C-Sec scans can't be mistaken in this_, but what's inside_? _Inside_, not just under the biological surface and the synthetic additions that protrude under the barely healed skin of the face, marred with rectangular scars. _Is it still Shepard, down there?_

_Two years is a long time… enough time to bring a dead man back, to reconstruct him to his previous self? Or to break and brainwash a living one?_

The thought fills Anderson with cold anger surging deep within, and no less cold nausea: _would I be able to tell the difference?_

So far, all he can see and hear _is_ Shepard, with some physical changes here and there: _that could have been expected, given the extent of surgery that apparently had to be performed_. The man also talks and behaves like Shepard, every single mannerism that Anderson has observed over the time _is_ there.

So is a great deal of tension: kept in check, and well-concealed except to those who know him well.

Most of the time, Anderson lets him speak on his own, to give himself the time to assess and to think, to either quench or flare those doubts gnawing at him ever since he saw the footage from Freedom's Progress: Shepard with two people, a man and a woman, wearing distinct Cerberus emblems.

_Damn._

He watches Shepard almost constantly, from under the lids, knowing how unnerving the look can be – and knowing that _Shepard_ would recognize it.

By all accounts, he does, though he doesn't show it much.

_Let's see._

The story of a miraculous resurrection is coming to an end, and as Shepard narrates the Collectors' attack on Freedom's Progress, Anderson can almost see The Illusive Man's face smirking in the background.

There's but one way to go about it.

"Just one thing: what exactly were you doing on Freedom's Progress… Shepard?"

Shepard freezes for an instant. "What do you _mean_? What the hell do you _think_ I was doing there, Anderson? Are you suggesting I was somehow _involved_?" Towards the end, Shepard is raising his voice, the hurt and anger getting the better of him.

It used to be very rare to get Shepard carried away like that: _ouch, this must have hit a nerve. _Without a flinch, Anderson delves head first into the confrontation. "The Connor Shepard I knew would rather gut himself than work with Cerberus," he says harshly.

Shepard is starting to breathe rapidly. "The list of people who have actually had the pleasure to see my gut is rather extensive these days, so you may as well consider the deed done. What's your beef with me, Anderson? That I had no say in what was being done with my fucking corpse? Or that I didn't have the decency to slit my wrists when I found out that I served as a resurrection exercise for Cerberus? What would you have me do, huh? I woke up to find out that you've screwed two fucking years doing nothing while the Reapers are preparing for an invasion and people are disappearing by thousands? Would you really expect me to use this new life just to shut up and fall in line? I hate Cerberus as much as I always did but if they're the only ones actually _doing_ something, then what choice do I have? Tell me, Anderson, can you rally the Alliance? Will they get their heads out of their arses and finally start doing something? Tell me you can do it, and I'm all yours, screw the Cerberus! You can't? Then I'll make do with any tool I can find and worry about the consequences later! Really, Anderson, what _else_ would you expect me to do?"

In the silence after his outburst, Shepard abruptly breaks the eye contact and turns his head away.

Anderson lets the silence linger, then sits back comfortably and sips his drink, suppressing the urge to smile contently. "Just for the record," he says calmly, "I kept droning about the Reapers to people who refused to hear and see so long that I was simply ordered to shut up. Without you to support the story… It turned out that a dead hero is more convenient than the living one: doesn't talk back. That's how it went, Shepard. They put their heads into their arses, and refused to acknowledge that the threat is real. And now that you are back and working with Cerberus… they'll listen even less. They'll discredit you. Tear you to pieces. Drag through the mud."

The whole time Anderson is speaking, Shepard is watching his hands: at a close look, those rectangular scars are also there, only well-healed. Finally, he raises his eyes. "I know, Anderson," he says tiredly. "I got spaced, not stupid. But… someone has to do something, to try at least, to stop the Reapers, and to deal with the Collectors, because these two definitely have something in common, or I'm a krogan. So, I'll do what I can. Do you see any other option?"

Anderson mentally curses but aloud he says: "We're both old enough to know that sometimes you have no other choice but to do something you really don't want to. The thing is… this might turn out too dangerous even for you to handle. There may be facts you do not see, you are not aware of… maybe you think that you are in control now but it might get out of hand quickly, without you even knowing."

Shepard snorts. "'Spaced, not stupid', Anderson. You're preaching to the choir. But… I appreciate your concern."

_I don't want to see you paying for something you're doing in earnest,_ Anderson ponders, _'cause the road to hell, as they say_… "I guess you expect more than concern from me, though. I agree that there is little choice, so I'll pull all the strings I can to keep the Alliance off you tail." _And hope that Cerberus isn't pulling yours_. "Don't expect support from them, but at least they won't be a hindrance. You can bet on winning Hackett to your side quite safely, and reinstating your Spectre status would be a boon… given that the Council owes you, that shouldn't be so difficult to arrange."

Shepard visibly shrugs off some of the tension. "That's exactly what I need. And…"

"Yes?"

"One more thing. Something more… personal." Shepard hesitates. "I need you arrange something for me…absolutely discreetly. Thorough medical scanning, with someone completely trustworthy." To Anderson's raised brow, he explains: "I had Chakwas run every test she could think of, but… that ship is controlled by a bloody AI, how do I know that it's not changing the readings? The Illusive Man claims they didn't plant any controlling device in my brain but I believe him only as far as I can throw him. I'm stuffed with implants from head to toe, I need to be sure. Or as sure as can be arranged. And while you're at it…" he sets his eyes into Anderson's, "feel free to run every test _you_ can think of – lie detector, serum of truth, whatever." A quirk of his mouth. "Just as long as it stays confidential and you don't let Udina watch."

_Damn you, that was a low blow. _"Shepard…"

He gets the look 'and-don't-pretend-you-weren't-contemplating-this'. "I mean it."

_Sure. I can see that you wholeheartedly believe what you are saying. No test will reveal if you are being manipulated, though._ "I'll arrange the scans… the other thing is not necessary."

Shepard cocks his head. "I won't be making this offer twice, Anderson. If you still have doubts about me, go ahead with it."

"Stuff it, Shepard. I don't doubt you." _The Illusive Man is a different kettle of fish, though_.

Shepard smiles, fleetingly. "Are we clear, then?"

"We're clear," Anderson confirms, and blocks the _what-ifs_ for the time being. He gets up from his chair. "You might want to wait here while I talk to the Council… best not have you parade around until this gets resolved." _Or just in case_.

An uncomfortable pause. "Alright. I don't want to inconvenience you if it doesn't go as smoothly as you think." He gets up, too. "Thank you, Anderson, for everything…" A smirk. "And for the drink."

The glass is almost full; Shepard was never much into vodka. _I knew this was a lame test, really._

As they shake hands, Anderson obeys the impulse and briefly pulls the younger man into an embrace, stiff shoulders and all. "Good to have you back," he mutters, unable to keep his voice from getting hushed. "How are you coping?"

The answer comes also sort of muffled. "Learning to deal with two years'… absence. Synthetic parts… and the like."

"So bad?" Anderson asks softly.

Shepard half-shrugs. "Could be worse, I guess. Physically, I'm fine – in a better shape than before, I guess. Other than that… I definitely keep snapping at people more often than I used to." He drops his eyes. "Sorry 'bout what I said before."

"Never mind. Come by snapping any time you feel like it."

Shepard nods, visibly uncomfortable, and so Anderson quickly says before the both get too emotional: "Don't you need anything else from me? Would you like me to get in touch with your mother, to –?"

"Unnecessary. I sent her a message just before the Normandy landed on the Citadel. She has played it by now."

_And has most probably replied._ "You will want to get back to your ship, then."

"But you said – "

"I know what I said. And now I say, get back to the Normandy." And, for the sake of the man he used to know, Anderson casts caution aside. "Probably better if you stay there until I let you know how my dealings with the Council went…and in case the shit hits the fan, I'll try to give you the time to get out."

Even before, it was a rare event to see Shepard's face beam like a boy's. "Thanks, Anderson. I knew you wouldn't fail me."

_If only I could be so sure myself_. "Get you going."

When the door closes behind Shepard, Anderson empties his glass and takes the time to recall every single swearword he knows, to curse The Illusive Man to the seventh hell. After that, he refills the glass and raises it in a toast. "Good to have you back, Shepard."

_Gosh, I'm so stupidly glad to have you back._

* * *

_This time, I'll be ripping the titles from the B5 spin-off, Crusade, with all due credits to MJS for the awesome work._


	2. Why are you here?

Yet another response to Zute's challenge to write a first person PoV, and I promise this is the last time I get into people's heads. I just couldn't resist this one chance to... oh, I'm not going to spoil it for you, I suppose you will know what I mean soon enough :D

* * *

The whiskey is excellent and Shepard apparently savours the taste. We take our time, sipping comfortably, me listening, him talking: slowly, methodically, reporting every single detail of the mission.

_Suicide mission._

_Through the infamous Omega 4 Relay, to a base swarming with Collectors, and back again._

_An entirely impossible feat, and I believe every single word – even that part about the abducted colonists dissolved to provide material for building a Reaper it's _Shepard_, after all._

_Only, the feat will also have an aftermath, and that's the part I'd rather avoid._

"… and that's about it. We docked on Omega, put ourselves and the ship back in shape… then went over here." He nods at the datapad on my desk. "You've got every bit of technical data there, plus everything Miranda delved of the Cerberus operations – the Illusive Man has undoubtedly made his moves to make it all obsolete, but you may still catch some clues, anyway."

"This looks like an official divorce," I remark neutrally. _About high time_.

Shepard flashes a smile. "You should have seen his face when I told him, after I blew that base he was sooo teetering to get his hands on. Not exactly pleased with me, I'd say. The pleasure to tell him to bugger off was solely mine."

"I can imagine. So… what now, Shepard?"

This time, it is a smirk, and rather bitter. "Fight the Reapers, of course, but they haven't turned up yet, and no idea when they will… which makes me kind of jobless. For the time being, it's… over."

_Oh. Shit._

"Shepard –" I say as he unclasps his holstered side-gun and puts it on my desk together with his omnitool.

"Anderson. Please. I told Hackett I would, so I do. Don't make this harder for me."

_How about _you_ not making it harder for _me_, huh? _"Shepard –"

"Come on, don't look like that. I'm not getting executed right away, or am I?"

_No, just arrested and charged with collaborating with a terrorist organisation. _I've lost quite some sleep over it, and Hackett even more, and all we achieved was a delay 'until the mission was complete' – which it just has_._

_Damn you, Shepard._

I can perfectly understand his reasons, personal as well as practical, which led him to surrender on the Citadel rather than in the Alliance space, and I can be pretty sure those who will be out for his hide will use it against him: _allowed his accomplices to escape_. By now, the rogue Cerberus operatives have already disappeared among the crowds of the Citadel, or headed elsewhere, assuming new identities… while Shepard stayed behind to get his due, for saving our asses at the cost of three hundred thousand dead batarians.

I snap out of my thoughts, seeing Shepard watch me with a raised brow. There is no way he didn't know he was game ever since he emerged from the Omega 4 Relay… if not for his Spectre status, he could have easily been detained the moment he set foot on the Citadel.

Not the first time, I curse Hackett for picking Shepard to clean his mess, even though I am well aware that Shepard was probably the only suited to do the job, and that if not for him, well...

_Even so, it's tough._

_Fuck it._

Shepard looks away. "So, what are you waiting for? Call Bailey or someone and arrange the handcuffs time, will you?"

_Gosh, I hate this._

Slowly, I get up and walk over to my personal comm. "Get yourself another glass," I say over my shoulder, "there's no hurry. Bailey will need the time to arrange your… escort… discreetly." _The public parading will be later, there is no way we manage to keep this to ourselves for long._

As I return to my seat, I help myself to some more whisky, as well. I'll have to call Hackett, so that we can start pulling the string… I'm really not looking forward to the show.

The beep of the comm by the door comes too soon. With a quick move, Shepard thrusts his glass into the thickly growing decorative plan by the desk. _Really, Shepard, you're a better politician than me. _The bottle and my glass quickly follow, even as I hear Udina on the comm just before the door opens: "Councillor… we have C-Sec here."

The C-Secs are four, rather nervous, and none of them looks like Bailey. Behind them, Udina watches with the glee of the proverbial cat that has just eaten not a single canary but a whole cage of them.

_Udina, you viper._

"Connor Shepard. You're under arrest, on the charges of terrorism and genocide. Do not resist, or we will apply lethal force," says the tallest officer, looking tad uncomfortably aware that four of them may not be enough to take down a Spectre.

"That's unnecessary," I intervene. "Shepard has just surrendered himself to my authority." _And bless you for hiding those glasses, being seen buddy-buddying would really be politically unsavvy. 'Will have to check my comm and office for bugs again, and tell Bailey to do likewise. _"Captain Bailey has already been informed."

"As it seems, Captain Bailey has been delayed," Udina remarks. "And I must strongly object, Councillor, to leaving this dangerous individual unrestrained in your presence. He is a threat not just to humanity itself but to the galactic peace, as well."

"Yeah, love you too, Udina," Shepard mutters. Shrugging nonchalantly, he gets up and offers his hands for the restraints, but he is keeping his head too high to convince me that he is really cool with it.

The C-Secs, looking as if they were about to shit their pants with relief, quickly hassle about their job, while Udina watches with the look of predatory contentment…

_No. Not a predator. A rat, like in a horror movie, approaching a helpless victim. That's what you are, bastard, and you'll get your due for this, for forcing me to play along._

"I think I'll come with you, gentlemen, there are certain arrangements to be made for Shepard's detainment."

"But, Councillor, your meeting – "

"Just cancelled. Arrange it. And while you're at it, go through the communications bills over the last six months, there seem to be some inconsistencies in your private calls. I expect your explanation as I come back, which will be soon." _Now, that does spoil his day at least a bit._

I tail the C-Secs as they are leaving, and Udina remains where he was standing, just by the door, not to miss a thing.

_Well, you keep asking for it._

Passing Udina, I thrust my elbow in his stomach and stomp hard on his instep. I turn on my heel, for a good measure, even as I'm saying: "Oh, sorry, Udina, 'seems I'm getting clumsy."

Everyone turns, of course, and I see Shepard's eyes sparkle with amusement. Just at that moment, the entrance door opens, letting in a rather huffed Bailey, with his own men. Under his look, the four apparently jobless-to-be C-Secs seem to shrink. "I'm taking this over, guys. – Greetings, Councillor. I was delayed by some high priority message which turned out to be a hoax."

_Of course. _Next to me, Udina is still doubling and gasping, and I must resist the urge to finish him off.

_Next time, Udina._

I see Shepard off, to the door of the Spectre office just opposite the corridor, and we say our goodbyes; none of what I really wanted to tell him but there is neither the time nor place, and I hope there will still be, one day, when he walks a free man again.

Then I return to my office to call Hackett, and to retrieve the glasses.


	3. Who are you?

_A belated birthday present for **reyavie**_

* * *

Shepard is so very quiet, so very controlled, that Anderson would have figured out something was wrong even if he didn't know already. Shepard went go to the Citadel straight from Horizon, yet the reports travelled faster; in fact, they are lying on the very table between them.

Those reports made Anderson almost physically sick; the man who saw with his very eyes apparently didn't get out of it unscathed, either. The rectangular surgical scars have healed almost without a trace but he has gotten himself some new ones; a nick above his left eye, and fresh burn marks on his right cheek, symmetrically with where the old scar of Akuze had been. There are the tell-tale signs of exertion, as well, and tension, underlying every single word, every gesture. He refuses the offered drink and doesn't look at Anderson much as he talks about the hell of Horizon.

The worst scars, Anderson knows, are those underneath…

…especially from the ones we love and trust.

The inevitable is just the matter of time.

"Ash was there," Shepard says after a pause.

Anderson nods. "I know. I sent her on Horizon."

"But you didn't tell me." The same blank tone, yet the accusation palpable. _I thought you were my friend_; the words needn't sound for Anderson to hear.

_That I am, even more than you know. Yet, there are boundaries I cannot overstep, things I cannot risk, not even for a friend. _"The information was classified, Shepard."

A small twitch of the lips, and a nod: Shepard has played the game long enough. It's a convenient excuse, but the man deserves more, and Anderson is not one who would hide behind excuses: _not to a friend_. "I wouldn't tell you even if I could. For all I knew, the Illusive Man could have been lying to you, manipulating you, and it was well possible that Cerberus itself was behind the abductions. I couldn't endanger her mission."

Shepard stares past him, and seconds linger: the first payment for dancing to the devil's tune has arrived, sooner than he expected. "I see," he mutters finally.

"I'm sorry," Anderson says, though he had not intended to; he knows, they _both_ do, that there was no other way. "It... didn't go well with Williams?"

"That would be an understatement, I guess. But I can't really blame her, can I?"

_Can't really blame her if _I_, who knew you best, didn't trust you enough, right?_

Inadvertently, Anderson averts his eyes.

Those hurts within may not have been dealt intentionally, yet they are no lighter because of that.

They exchange the usual phrases before Shepard gets up, but it still feels as if he was walking away on Anderson, deserved or not.

_Don't go like that,_ Anderson thinks. _Don't._

Shepard probably feels that way, too, because he pauses. "I was wondering… if the need be, would you still punch Udina and help steal the Normandy for me?"

Anderson hesitates a split of a second too long, and something fragile breaks inaudibly.

Shepard smiles briefly, and unconvincingly, heading for the door. "Never mind. Good bye."

_Dammit_. "Commander," he says to Shepard's back, because if nothing else, then the stripped title is bound to stop him, and it does. "I believe this thought is worth a more thorough discussion, somewhere private. It is a shame the old place got shut down, but I hear there's one really good near the hanar embassy. Would you still come for a glass if I invited you to?"

Shepard turns back to him, and only now Anderson realizes the extent to which this really mattered. "Any time," comes a hushed response.

And so Anderson grabs his jacket and accompanies Shepard out, not bothering to cancel his meetings: _they will find out on their own. The security will be mad like hell._.. _but some things simply must be done._

_Even fearsome commanders need to be shown faith. Now even more than before._


	4. What do you want?

**What Do You Want?**

"_Lieutenant Connor Shepard ready for debriefing. Report enclosed."_

The message was sent from Doctor Alim's omnitool but the sender was Shepard himself. Anderson doesn't bother wondering what it took to persuade the Doctor who kept claiming that Shepard was in no condition to be debriefed just yet; instead, he merely takes the chance and comes aboard the _Warsaw_. Ignoring the characteristic hospital smell permeating the medbay, he settles opposite the sole survivor of Akuze.

Sitting on his bed, wearing the standard medbay issue shirt, Shepard looks nothing like ready, though, his face a mess of glistening medigel, skin peeling off the sunburns and a wild black stubble as Alim apparently forbade him to shave so as not to irritate the healing complexion. The large scar on his left cheek, running from the temple to the jaw, is raw red and most of his left shoulder and arm are still in bandages.

All in all, a vast improvement over their first meeting, and, unlike then, Shepard now seems perfectly lucid. Lucid and all too composed, as he relays the events of Akuze, as if they happened to someone else.

Yet, despite the matter-of-fact, laconic sentences, much like those from the message and the report, Anderson feels being drawn into the account of the events; maintaining the necessary detachment becomes increasingly difficult. Somehow, as if a part of him had been down there, as well: in the middle of the desperate fight, experiencing the loss of every single man under his command. Yet deeper, on a personal level, he hates what he is doing to Shepard: forcing him not only remember but reassess every single move, every order, to reveal possible faults.

None of these feelings make it through the professional mask, though. Anderson digs through the details mercilessly and efficiently, judging and evaluating not only the past action but the man in front of him, as well.

Soon enough, first chinks appear on the smooth surface: pauses between the sentences lengthen, and every now and then, Shepard's fingers dig into the blanket, to be slowly and controlledly released.

"Perhaps we should take a break?" Anderson offers. Having read and watched every single material available, he doubts Shepard is to blame in any possible way, and he certainly doesn't wish to discomfort the man any more than absolutely necessary.

"No. I – I need to do this." The first time during their conversation, Shepard's voice breaks in mid-sentence. He takes a deep breath. "I mean, it won't get any prettier later or tomorrow, so I'd like to get this over and be done with it… if you don't mind, sir."

"But of course not," Anderson replies, wondering once again why Shepard seems so eager to report. Could he be unable to cope with the stress of waiting for the inevitable? That would be a serious flaw, and one Anderson doesn't think that Shepard possesses.

The account reaches the point when Shepard set out on the way back – from that point on, the report contained only a few sentences, and he doesn't seem to be more eloquent even now.

"You did not provide many details on your way back, Lieutenant," Anderson remarks and closely watches for the reaction.

Shepard seems to be genuinely surprised. "There wasn't really much to report, sir. I must admit I focused mainly on reaching the destination and didn't pay much attention to my surroundings… especially as my state deteriorated."

'_Deteriorated'. What a way to put that he was more dead than alive when he reached the colony._ "So, you didn't see any signs of thresher activity – or anything else suspicious – on your way back?"

"To my best knowledge, no, sir. Though… I wasn't completely lucid a great deal of time."

Anderson nods, and notices the sheen of perspiration on Shepard's forehead. _Exhaustion, or nervousness? And why?_

That is what Anderson needs to find out. "Very well, Lieutenant. One last question, please: are you aware of any fault on your part?"

Shepard's hands clutch at the blanket again. "I…" He turns so pale that Anderson wonders if the Doctor wasn't right, after all; at the same time, the hesitation arouses his suspicion.

"Did you make a mistake, Lieutenant?" he asks bluntly, hoping to finally solve the puzzle. _Though I really don't want to find out now that you have held something back._

Finally, Shepard's composure shows a major crack. "I – I don't know, sir. I'm not shrugging off responsibility, it's just – I – perhaps I did."

Anderson feels a lump forming in his stomach. "What makes you think you made a mistake, Lieutenant?" he asks softly.

Shepard looks at him with the eyes of one living his private hell. "They're _dead_. I must have."

The confession brings relief. _Just a plain survivor's guilt, not a bad consciousness_. Throwing away the cold professionalism, Anderson leans forward. "To my best knowledge, you didn't. You didn't know what you stood against. Not knowing, there were only a few things you could have done differently, and those with a dubious outcome, anyway. You didn't know."

"But I should have known!" comes a desperate reply. "I was their CO. There must have been some clues, some reports I skipped –"

_So, _this_ is it. That's why you wanted to be debriefed ASAP, so that you could get access to the databases and check what you might have missed._ "You didn't. I've checked the reports myself. You didn't miss a thing, Lieutenant. It wasn't there."

For an instant, it seems that Shepard might break down crying, but then his mind takes the next logical step. "If it wasn't my fault, then _whose_?" When Anderson doesn't respond immediately, his eyes narrow. "Someone _screwed_ and my men died for it, not to mention all those colonists. Someone has to be held responsible for that! You're in charge of the investigation, won't you give a damn?"

This borders on insubordination, but Anderson is willing to give it a pass for now. The years of experience help him keep his face unmoved. "I'm leading an investigation of the disaster that wiped out your unit, and now that I have received your report and debriefed you, it is closed."

Shepard is breathing rapidly. "Just like that?" he asks incredulously.

"There will be further investigation into the matter – most probably is already under way – but not through military channels and I will have no part in it." Anderson is perfectly sure that neither his expression nor his voice show how much he hates the fact; all of a sudden, however, he has an annoying feeling that this whelp of an officer sees through him.

_The whelp has been through hell and deserves at least something for that._ "Lieutenant," Anderson lowers his voice. "As you have said, someone screwed mightily – either right during the initial exploration, or later, during assessing the report when the decree on settlement was to be issued. Given the rich ore resources on Akuze, I don't find it impossible that someone actually twiddled with the reports because of the profit. Either way, though, there is big money in this, and big players. Too big, actually."

Shepard's hands ball into fists, the skin turning white over the knuckles. The freshly healed tissue on the left hand cracks, seeping blood. "I don't care. I won't leave it like that."

Anderson can sympathize, very, very much, but has learned the rules of the game the hard way. "You're not in a position to change a thing, Lieutenant." _And if you try, you never will._

Something glowers in those dark eyes – something born during the night of gunfire and mortal screams. Their eyes lock and hold.

'_Don't'_, Anderson signals with his eyes. _'Don't do anything rash.'_

Shepard does not heed. "So, you're telling me to cow and shut up," he says in a forcibly flat tone.

_A time for a life lesson, then_. "You probably do not realize how vulnerable you are right now, Lieutenant. Until the blame has been assigned – or dug under the carpet – you might still become a convenient scapegoat, even if I report you as blameless."

The dark eyes are hard as stones. "Are you threatening me?"

Anderson snorts in frustration. "I'm _warning_ you, fool. Don't rush into something head over heels before you even know what you're up for. Even if they don't manage to pin some blame on you, it would be an easy cake to make you look unstable after what you've been through, and discredit you for good."

Finally, Shepard drops his eyes, looking at his bleeding hand. "So, I am to leave this be, because if I don't, I won't achieve a thing, anyway, and I might even get _hurt_? Is this what you are telling me, _sir_?"

The conclusion annoys Anderson, but he realizes he cannot be too hard on the man. They're strangers to each other, after all, and communicating something like this is not easy. Being too open is a risk, but Anderson has already decided that it is one worth taking. "I'm telling you to leave it be for _now_. Take your time, wait out, build your position… and you will get your answers, eventually – at a time when you _will_ be able to make a difference."

"Wait out," Shepard repeats slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue. Suddenly, he raises his eyes again. "You're a Captain and an N7. Doesn't your word have its weight?"

"Not as much as you might think," Anderson has to admit, unable to hold back the bitterness he has felt ever since the time when his word held no weight against the word of a Spectre.

Taken aback, Shepard watches him wistfully, the glower in his eyes concealed but unquenched. Then he says slowly: "So… in your opinion, I should play a good hero, build a career on it and wait for a chance to strike, right?"

"Right."

A long pause. "Why tell me this… sir?"

Finally, understanding seems to be established. "Because you're right, Shepard. Someone _has_ to be held responsible." He gives Shepard a hard look. "Can you do it?"

A slow nod. "I can. For _them_, and _solely_ for them."

The meaning of 'them' is quite clear, and, given Shepard's record, something Anderson anticipated. The man who survived on his own at such dire odds is not the type who would cow for his own sake.

Anderson allows himself a little smile: the picture he sees now is one he anticipated, as well… anticipated and looked forward to. His next step is a given – the man does deserve some cheering up. "One more thing to be discussed, Lieutenant. When I finish my report, I'm going to write one more – your recommendation for the N-training."

The way Shepard's jaw literally drops is quite amusing but then he frowns: "Are you – are you kidding me, sir?"

Anderson is dead sure that the swallowed word was 'fucking', and he almost grins, but for the sake of the show he doesn't. "I'm a hundred percent serious," he assures Shepard. You've shown remarkable skill and will, such as are required from the N-trainees."

Curiously, Shepard seems unable to look into his eyes now. "I thought the N-academy is for officers who have shown outstanding commanding skills. How does losing the whole unit qualify?"

"You've done your best to minimize the losses; being overpowered doesn't count as your fault. You couldn't save them. No-one would."

Despite the reassurance, Shepard drops his head even lower, and Anderson is unable to figure out what is bothering the man now. He tries, nonetheless: "You needn't decide right now. It will take some time before the bureaucracy processes the recommendation, and they will send you an invitation only after you're done with rehab and psychologists – "

Shepard flinches at that and his knuckles turn white again.

_Dammit._ "Lieutenant," Anderson says softly, "you do realize you have there a case of survivor's guilt rampant but –"

Belatedly, he realizes what the problem is only as he hears a ragged breath, and he mentally kicks himself: "– but I guess I've strained you too much for today, the Doctor won't be pleased with me. I'll tell him that you need some rest now so that he won't come bother you looking if I didn't devour you alive."

Getting up, he ponders patting the young man on the healthy shoulder, but realizing what the reaction might be, he decides to spare them both the embarrassment. "No need to dwell on formalities for this once. Looking forward to meeting you during your training, Shepard." _If you manage to pull yourself together, son. I sincerely hope you do._

Not waiting for a reply, he walks out of the medbay, to meet a cold stare from Doctor Alim and his assistant, who would obviously very much liked to devour _him_ alive. Tarasov, like a mother hen, waits just behind the corner, and several crewmen dawdle nearby, looking conspicuously inconspicuous.

Just another sign how well-liked Shepard is by the crew.

Anderson finds himself beginning to share the attitude.


	5. Do You Have Anything Worth Living For?

_A/N: I do not like sticking close to the game content and I generally prefer writing things that happened off the screen, but this is an exception which had to be written. Here is my tribute to the piece of awesome writing which made a true peak of the trilogy. I did my best, hoping that it might be enough to do good. I own nothing here, it is all Bioware's._

* * *

**Do you have anything worth living for?**

His world has shrunk into a muzzle of a gun.

Being at the point of a gun is no news for Anderson, and it never scared him before; what does scare him now is the helpless horror in Shepard's eyes as his hand holding the gun jerks upwards. He can see the exertion as Shepard vainly wills the hand _down, _and his anguish when he is unable to.

_Oh, Shepard…_

Their eyes meet over the gun, reflecting the same despair, and exasperation at the unnecessary cruelty of making _Shepard_, of all people, his executioner.

_No. Not this, not this!_

Though, even death from Shepard's hands would be acceptable were it a means to an end, and not mere mockery at their failure just when they were about to triumph.

The thought how close they were to success is almost physically painful.

Having survived the fiery hell of the Harbinger's beams, Anderson found himself _hoping_ once again. He came to after being tossed away by an exploding transporter: a single survivor among the charred corpses, bruised and blistered but largely unharmed. Everything was eerily quiet, with the gunfire and explosions sounding only from the distance… and with no Reapers around. His heart beating fast, Anderson scrambled to his feet, just in time to see a solitary figure staggering towards the beam – a familiar figure. "_Shepard!_" he creaked with a dry mouth but there was no response, and so he ran, slightly limping, to follow into the flash of the white light. His hope burnt strong in him even despite landing among endless heaps of bodies in the dark – why, he _did_ it after all, he managed to get to the Citadel, and _Shepard_ finally answered on the comm. There was no resistance, and he found a console…

He _hoped_, against all the wisdom of training and experience; finally, after the months of merely holding out against despair, he truly _hoped_ again.

That hope was crushed mercilessly when he leaned over the console and suddenly froze, unable to move, or even speak, his mouth as if clogged by thick oily air, until he heard the shuffling steps and Shepard's hoarse voice calling him. Then, _something_ used his legs to turn him around and he finally saw Shepard, scorched and bloodied, looking at him uncomprehendingly as he found himself immobilized, as well.

The understanding dawned in when another figure emerged: slender and elegant in his immaculate expensive suit, and his face an abomination of tech merging with flesh.

The Illusive Man.

Self-confident and smug with his newly gained powers, raving about controlling the Reapers while wasting the humanity's only chance.

_Oh, God. He has had himself implanted with Reaper tech and betrayed us all._

_A single man's sick ambition doomed us all._

Anderson fights the immobilizing force with every fibre of his being. He can feel sweat trickling down his temples and neck, and all he can manage are a few uncoordinated moves and rasp words, every now and then as the grip on him slightly releases whenever the Illusive Man concentrates on Shepard.

_Shepard._

"Bullshit… They're… controlling _you_…" he gasps, all too well aware that every effort to reason with a madman is futile. Yet, he cannot be silent, hearing the smooth, cultivated voice speak with hypnotizing force.

_Don't buy that crap. Don't, Shepard, Don't let him talk you down…_

_Could he, in time, control our minds like he does our bodies?_

Horror crawls down his spine with cold fingers.

Nothing he has every faced prepared him for a fight like this, and his helplessness is debilitating. His only hope now is that Shepard might fare better than him in the struggle of wills and make a difference.

Anderson clings to that last remnant of hope – hope fuelled by Shepard's resolution.

Showing no signs of succumbing to the Illusive Man's will, and despite his poor state, Shepard speaks with his own force, the one that brought the races of the galaxy under his lead.

That force is buying them time now, keeping the Illusive Man occupied.

_Shepard is the only one who really matters here, _Anderson realizes. _The Illusive Man's creation when he brought him back from the dead, he is the one who has to bend to make the bastard's victory complete._

_As long as he resists, we still have a chance._

Involuntarily, he makes a few steps and turns round and round as The Illusive Man starts pacing: a marionette dancing to the tune. He cannot even grit his teeth helplessly at being manipulated like that… manipulated and ridiculed.

_Never mind… Go on, bastard, talk. Keep gloating long enough and your control will start slipping. One of us will break free, eventually._

_Eventually._

_Good men, brave men, are dying every second while you _talk_, and Hackett's fleet is melting like snow in the sun._

_If only Shepard could move that gun a few inches… a single blow would be enough._

_Damn, I could break the SOB's neck like a twig, if only I could move._

"Listen to yourself… you're… indoctrinated," he forces out, before the invisible hand grips his throat again and black, oily shadows swirl before his eyes.

While the grip still holds, the Illusive Man's self-confidence starts showing the first cracks, angered by their resistance.

_We're getting you, bastard. Good job, Shepard, that anger will be our key…_

…_or not._

Anderson staggers, feeling a blow to his ribs, and Shepard issues a sound as if he was shot himself, closing his eyes briefly as if he couldn't bear the sight.

Strangely distanced, Anderson feels the warmth of blood soaking his shirt… that, and his lungs suddenly lacking air.

_Oh. Shit._

The force which has kept him motionless, though, keeps him from toppling to the floor, pinned in the air like an insect in amber, and equally useless. His chest heaving painfully, he gasps for air with small, shallow breaths.

_So close…_

_You'll have to do handle this yourself, Shepard… I'm done._

_Though…_

_As long as I breathe, that bastard has to waste some of his attention on me, and meanwhile you might…_

Fixing his eyes on Shepard as the only solid point in his universe, Anderson concentrates all his efforts not to faint. _Never mind me_, he wills through his eyes to Shepard, _never mind,_ _just get the bastard down. You can do this, son. You can do this_.

_Just… hurry, please._

The voices are coming muffled now and he barely feels as the Illusive Man draws the gun from the holster at his hip; the possibility of being shot with his own Carnifex adding to the insubstantial details at the edge of his consciousness. The grip of the Illusive Man's will is wavering as his self-control crumbles under Shepard's words, and Anderson has to steady his wobbly feet to remain standing, so as not to alert the bastard.

Despite his best effort, he is beginning to sway.

_Keep pressing him, Shepard. Keep pressing..._

"So, what are you waiting for?" Despite the obvious pain and exhaustion, Shepard's voice drives the idea home with the perfection of an omniblade. "Do it, then! Take control over the Reapers, stop them! Now before it is too late!"

"I…" The elegant figure hesitates, and his voice falters. "I can't…"

"Of course… you can't… they own you now…" Anderson mutters with numb lips, adding yet another prick at the cost of the precious breath, to increase the pressure.

_I won't last long,_ he realizes with a tinge of panic as his vision begins to blur and the numbness spreads to all of his body. The hold of him is quickly loosening but he cannot do a thing, spending his strength to remain standing. He barely hears the voices, drowning in his laboured gasps and in the blood throbbing in his ears. _Shepard, please…_

The shot sounds distant and momentarily, Anderson is unsure who, and if, has been hit. Then, however, the figure in the dark suit just next to him crumples to the floor, and all of a sudden, he is free again and the floor is rushing towards him.

Struggling for breath, he remains lying on the floor, cold and dark, until a beam of bright light repels the darkness – so fresh and astonishing against the dim electronic light that Anderson overcomes his weakness and slightly raises his head to see…

_The Earth._

The arms of the Citadel are slowly opening, letting in the light of the Earth, blue and white, and beautiful, shine at Anderson's face.

The Earth.

Finding the last remnants of strength in him, Anderson rises on his hands and drags himself towards a dais, propping his back against it to ease his breathing.

The sight is overwhelming. He had seen planets from the orbit countless times, even the Earth itself, but now it is different, basking in sunlight, unmarred by dust and smoke of destruction.

The Earth, and all that it means.

Anderson moves his eyes away only when Shepard slowly staggers towards him, and finally takes in all: the blood, the paleness, the scorched armour, the red and black of the third degree burns on his left arm… a strange symmetry in the injuries to the first time he saw Shepard, now that he sees him the last.

With a pained groan, Shepard heavily slumps next to him. "We did it," he mutters, his voice sounding light with giddiness following exertion.

"Yeah, we did…" The Earth before him and the young man next to him… the best company he could wish for a moment like this. The Earth encompasses all, the fiery beams at its orbit tiny and insignificant against the magnificence of its globe, peaceful and pristine from the distance.

"It's… quite a view," Anderson breathes out. _The best one can hope to take along. The one worth…_

"The best seats on the house," Shepard agrees, drawing the sight in.

…_everything…_

There is no sound around them but their uneven breath. The sunshine evokes the warmth of summer days, of lazy afternoons neither of them has had for ages. The constant fight and strain of the past months is over… looking back at them, they feel like a part of somebody else's life, the darkness and despair washed away by the sunlight setting the Earth to its glory.

The strain and struggle is gone, and Anderson has no more struggle left in him, either, replaced by serene tiredness which is not typical for him but not entirely unwelcome. _Time to let go… _"'Seems like ages since I just sat down," he mutters. The light is somewhat fading, into gentler, soothing tones, and he doesn't really feel pain any more.

"Anderson…"

_Yes, Shepard. _"Mmm…" the Earth disc becomes more solid before his eyes again, even though he can barely see anything else.

"Stay with me. We're almost through this."

_We are_. _Both of us._ Anderson knows: no help can reach them here in time, and it will really not take long. He would much like to do as Shepard pleads but he knows that he won't be able to. _So much unsaid_, he thinks with distant remorse but he lacks both the time and the breath. If only he could at least take the young man by the hand, or by the shoulders, one last time, but his hand does not respond and he barely feels it, and neither does he feel the hard edge of the dais.

There's but this little time left, and this little breath, to be used.

"You… did good... son. You did good." _Son. More a son of mine than the sons of my body. So much more I wanted to tell you…_ He barely sees the Earth before him, its light subdued to a faint glow, as he struggles for one last breath to finish: "I … am… proud of you."

He doesn't hear an answer, and the light of the Earth finally fades out.

* * *

_Many thanks to **Reyavie** and **Thanwen** for their help and support, as well as to everyone who read, reviewed, alerted and faved._

_This was the final chapter of the cycle of Shepard-Anderson interactions, though I cannot exclude that I will write some more Anderson in the future. Currently, I'm starting to work on a new project, **Unmemorabilia**, a collection of moments when Shepard is somewhat less of a legend, and there will be also coming a sort of closure for the events of Akuze._


End file.
